


World Enough, and Time

by Raina_at



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consensual, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22196392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raina_at/pseuds/Raina_at
Summary: Sam and Dean took care of the world. Now they have to take care of each other. Semi-schmoopy post-prevented Apocalypse fic.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 96





	World Enough, and Time

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this between Season 4 and Season 5, so it must be at least ten years ago, I guess. I was just going through my old stuff to decide what to post to AO3, and this is my favourite of my Sam/Dean stuff, so here goes. It's actually the last Sam/Dean story I wrote because I broke up with SPN mid-Season 5, so as far as I'm concerned, this is how the show ended ;-)
> 
> Obviously, consensual sibling incest here, so if that's not your thing, don't read. 
> 
> Title is from Andrew Marvell’s poem To His Coy Mistress.

Afterwards, it’s oddly quiet. 

The angels are the first to leave. Castiel and Anna and a few of the renegades who stood by them and their desperate, stupid plan. Castiel nods at them, once, and Dean gets the _thank you_ and the _goodbye_ implied, and he nods back, saying pretty much the same thing. And then the air shimmers and they’re gone, and the only people left are Sam, Dean, Bobby and a few bewildered, now no longer possessed random people who mill around helplessly until Bobby herds them over to his car. Bobby grunts at them not to be strangers now and then he takes off, tires screeching, the civvies huddled in the back seat, hoping they’ll soon wake up and forget this nightmare, and damned if Dean doesn’t envy them for the luxury of denial.

It’s only them left, then. Only the two of them, like always. Only it’s not like always because they just fucking prevented the fucking Apocalypse, and nobody will ever know how close it came to everything ending, and that in the end what stood between them was a pair of idiot brothers armed with nothing but faith, Latin and a few renegade angels who came together to decide that no, today the world won’t end. 

Sam’s sitting on the steps, back turned to the altar, and he looks about as exhausted, dirty and empty as Dean feels. Dean’s relieved, yes, but when he sits down next to Sam, most of what he feels is weariness, bone-deep, soul-deep, the kind of tired that sleep won’t cure and rest won’t soothe.

They sit there for a long time, quietly watching as the sun rises, a miracle in its own right. There’s joy here somewhere, but Dean’s too exhausted to feel it, too overwhelmed by the truce they just won. The war was long and bloody and painful, and they nearly lost everything once too often, and if Dean thinks about it, how close they came once again to losing everything today, how close they came to the abyss, he’ll probably start screaming at Sam and won’t stop, ever, so he simply closes his eyes and tips his head back and thinks of nothing at all.

“So what now?” Sam asks, after what seems like hours, his voice shot to hell and wavering, like he has no idea what Dean’s gonna answer.

Dean cracks an eye open to look at Sam, who’s watching him with a guarded expression, eyes hazel and clear and hopeful.

“Fucked if I know, Sammy,” Dean says, and he’s pretty sure he’s the only person in the world who’d notice how a little of the tension goes out of Sam’s body.

Sam gives him a tiny smile. “What do you wanna do?”

Dean snorts. “Since when does anyone care what I want?”

Sam holds his gaze, steady and sure. “I care.”

Dean drops his eyes, looks at his boots, ‘cause hell if he doesn’t feel light and slightly crazy and about to laugh and cry at the same time. “I know.” It’s true. He does know that. Even when they were at their most fucked up, at their most distant, even when the trust and the honesty and the partnership were fucked, Dean knew. And in the end, this is what saved them. This is what made him reach out to his brother convulsing with power, black eyes and all, electricity dancing around his fingertips from the juice the demons were pumping into him, from Lucifer’s call to his demon blood. And Dean still reached out and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and stood with him. And this is what made Sam’s eyes clear, what made Sam raise his hand against Lucifer, this is what bought the rest of them the time to imprison Lucifer again. This is what ended the war. For now at least.

Sam nudges him with his shoulder, smiling almost like he means it. “So, how about it? What do you wanna do?”

And Dean thinks, _Fuck it,_ feeling the smile on his lips almost crack his face apart with lack of use. “Get in the car, Sammy. We got some drivin’ to do.”

They get into the car, and they put the damned convent in their rear view mirror, and Dean puts the pedal to the metal, and they drive. Sam puts in AC/DC and cranks up the volume, the open road stretches out ahead of them, and Dean feels truly alive, and truly free, for maybe the first time since he got back from Hell.

*-*

It’s magnificent in all its huge natural glory. In a way it’s just a deep hole in the ground, in other ways it’s the most awesome thing Dean’s ever seen in his life. It’s near sunset, they drove the whole day, and Dean’s beyond tired, but it’s worth it. It’s the fucking Grand Canyon, at long last.

Sam’s standing near the edge, looking down into the endlessness, and a year ago, Dean would’ve been scared that he might jump, but not today. Not now. Today is a good day. Sam looks over to him, his stupid hair flopping into his eyes, a smile on his face. He looks younger than he did only yesterday, years off him with the weight off their shoulders, and Dean wonders whether he looks the same. 

“Wanna go down?” Sam asks. “We could take a few cold ones and our sleeping bags.”

Dean makes a show of considering it. “Yeah, okay.”

*-*

It’s already dark when they get to the bottom. The stars are out, the moon too; it’s a bright night, and warm. The rocks and the earth are still heated from the sun baking down on them. It’s June, and the days are endless, and the nights are short. They’re lying side by side, their sleeping bags between them and the packed earth. 

It’s quiet between them. Not the silence of too many fucked up stuff they’re not talking about, but a comfortable, warm, drowsy quiet. Occasionally Dean reaches out and Sam hands him another beer from the cooler, or one of them takes a bite of a sandwich and the paper rustles, but otherwise, the only sounds are the wind and the chirping of insects. 

Dean’s sleepy, but there’s no rush to sleep. The stars are nice, the night is calm, the earth is warm, and Sam’s soft, even breathing tells him for once, everything’s all right with the world. 

They have a lot to talk about. Decisions to make. Issues to lay to rest. But none of that matters now. For once, Dean just wants to lie here and rest a bit. He feels like he could lie here for years and still won’t find the will to move. Sam’s arm is brushing his when Sam shifts occasionally. Sam’s warm like the earth and somehow a more solid presence. He could roll over and rest his head on Sam’s shoulder and feel his skin and hear his heart beat. He could, and part of him wants to so much it’s like a pull he needs to resist, but mostly, he only wants to lie here and never move again, never speak again, to leave that peace intact, that fragile, quiet thing between them. 

“Night,” Sam whispers, turning towards Dean in the darkness, curling up like a kid, so close Dean can feel Sam’s hair brush his shoulder. 

“Night, Sammy,” Dean mutters, and closes his eyes. 

He sleeps without dreams for the first time in years.

*-*

Over greasy egg sandwiches and molasses-black coffee next morning, Sam looks at him and says, tentatively and overly nonchalantly, “You ever been to Yellowstone Park?”

Dean shakes his head and answers, carefully matching Sam’s casual tone, “We could go, you know.”

Sam smiles. “We could.”

So they go.

*-*

They leave the weapons in the car except for their guns. Sam leaves the laptop and Dean doesn’t touch the knives. They pack a duffle bag with water, sandwiches and beer, and they head out, sleeping bags and rain gear in Sam’s backpack.

They make their way into the park with their fucked-up boots and their faded jeans a sharp contrast to the khaki shorts and thick hiking boots of the tourists. They keep to the less frequented paths, and soon there’s nobody and nothing around for miles except rocks, trees and geysers. It’s beautiful out here, and quiet. You could walk for days and never meet a soul. It’s perfect.

They stop by a small brook and get out the fishing rods. The license cost them extra but Dean doesn’t care a damn. Sam builds a small fire and they grill the one measly trout they happened to catch between them. Sam brought marshmallows, which Dean would mock him for, normally, but it’s like normal service is suspended, and Dean’s not unhappy about that.

They sit by the fire a little after dinner, sharing a bottle of Jack Dean still had in the trunk.

“You think we should get some Champagne or something?” Sam asks, handing the Jack back to Dean. “You know, to celebrate?”

Dean snorts. “Champagne. How are we even related,” he says, rolling his eyes, and a year ago, hell, a month ago, the words would’ve been meant to sting, but now Sam just grins.

“Been asking myself the same thing for years, ever since I grew to a proper size and you stayed a midget,” Sam shoots back without missing a beat.

“Oh you are going down!” Dean puts the Jack down and tackles Sam to the ground, laughing, not caring that they’re acting like they’re three.

They wrestle a little, but Sam doesn’t really put up a fight, and soon Dean’s got him pinned and yells out, “Winner, and still champion. Suck it, Sammy!”

Sam just smiles at him, soft and bright and young. “You go on telling yourself that,” he says, but his words lack bite.

Sam’s body is warm and solid beneath him, and Dean feels light-headed and hyperaware of every inch of him. He rolls off Sam before he does something stupid and flips him off, lying next to Sam, so close their shoulders brush. “You so totally lose, dude.”

Sam snorts. “See if I ever let you win again.”

“Fuck you,” Dean retorts by routine, more reflex than insult. 

They’re quiet for a while, and Dean waits for his heartbeat to slow down, but somehow it doesn’t. Sam’s near and warm and he smells like sweat and smoke from the fire. Dean wants to touch him so badly it kind of hurts.

“Have you ever been to Yankee Stadium?” Sam asks, hesitantly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the night air.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I went with Dad once when we were on a hunt in New York.”

“Oh,” Sam says, and Dean hears the disappointment Sam’s trying to keep out of his voice.

Dean rolls to his side and props himself up on his elbow, looking down at Sam. “I could go again.”

Sam smiles.

So they go.

*-*

The actual game pretty much sucks. But the hot dogs don’t and the weather’s incredible, and Dean hasn’t been to an actual game in so long he forgot how much he loves the crowds and the yelling and the cat-calling, the energy of it, the freedom.

They cheer and curse along with the rest of the audience, and it’s not like either of them really cares about the game, but pretending to is just as much fun. They eat their body weight in hot dogs and chili fries, and Sam gets mustard all over his shirt, and Dean laughs himself sick. They almost get into a fight with the two Bronx natives who sit in front of them and tell them to keep it the fuck down. It’s the most meaningless argument Dean’s had in years, and Dean enjoys threatening these two dicks more than he should. He doesn’t actually throw a punch, ‘cause he has zero intention of getting arrested, but he and Sam have a good time abusing the two assholes on the way back to the cheap hotel they’re staying at.

It’s too hot to sleep in their room, so they take a few beers out to the fire escape and enjoy the night and the distant sound of never-ending New York traffic. 

Sam’s looking out over the city, alive and buzzing with sirens blaring and lights in windows going on and out, smog so thick you can’t see a single star. “You think we did the right thing?”

Dean looks down at his beer, starts peeling the label off. “What else were we supposed to do?”

Sam shrugs, gesturing out to the city. “Let the angels win? Paradise on Earth?”

Dean follows Sam’s gesture and looks out at the city teeming with life. Crime and pain and sweat and poverty, and family and joy and sex and love. “And what, leave the angels in charge of a mankind they can barely stand? Don’t think that’s such a hot option, Sammy.”

Sam nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly. Neither of them has forgotten what the angels have done to them, how they manipulated them and pitched them against each other and made everything bad between them even worse. 

“Hey, Sammy?” Dean says, deliberately nonchalant. 

Sam turns to him and smiles. “Yeah?”

And that smile, the tone of Sam’s voice, makes Dean’s chest tight, because he knows that right now, he could ask for anything, and Sam would give it to him, no hesitation. Anything. 

“You ever been to Sandusky, Ohio?” he says, finally.

“No. What’s in Sandusky?” Sam asks.

Dean shrugs, the effect somewhat marred by the grin on his face. “Rollercoasters, Sammy. Long, fast, loop-tastic rollercoasters.” He hands Sam a flyer he picked up in a motel on their way from Yellowstone.

“Cedar Point Amusement Park,” Sam reads, then looks up at Dean. “Crazy dangerous and borderline suicidal racing at barf-inducing speeds? Count me in.”

So they go.

*-*

Dean’s pumped on adrenaline and riding a serious sugar high from the pounds of cotton candy he’s eaten. He throws an arm around Sam’s shoulders and points him to the second of the two-speed and loop-tastic rollercoasters in the park. “Dare you to ride this thing three times in a row.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, ‘cause I’m suicidal.”

Dean grins. “Double-dog-dare you.” He waits a beat. “Chicken.”

Little brother bitchface fully intact, Sam glares at him. “Fine,” he says and stalks in the direction of the rollercoaster.

Sam actually rides the thing three times, crazy loopings and all, and of course he barfs his stomach out afterwards, throwing up in a trashcan while Dean sits on the steps to the toilets and laughs his ass off, because Sam’s barf is pink from the cotton candy. 

Sam raises his head, looking completely miserable, a tiny fleck of pink puke sticking to his chin. “I hate you so much.”

Dean just laughs some more.

*-*

It’s war, afterwards, basically. They go to Seattle to spit off the Space Needle, and on the way Sam draws on Dean’s face with a sharpie. Dean retaliates by dumping an entire bottle of laxatives in Sam’s coffee. Sam re-routes all of Dean’s favorite porn sites to maledominatrix.com, and Dean takes apart the laptop’s keyboard and glues all the letters back on wrong. In retaliation, Sam turns Dean’s favorite shirt bright pink. When Dean wears it anyway to the top of the Space Needle and gets hit on by a huge transvestite called Sugar, Sam laughs himself sick. Dean growls a threat of grievous bodily harm to Sam, but really he feels like somebody reached inside of him and put something back that’s been missing too long, ‘cause Sam’s laughing and he looks happy and Dean doesn’t even remember the last time that actually happened.

They call truce after that, ‘cause it just doesn’t get any better than this, standing at the top of the world and watching Sam laugh. 

They go to a bar that night, just to chill a little. They’re eating burgers and onion rings with thick home-made fries when the seriously hot waitress comes over to their booth and slides a napkin towards Dean with her number on it, giving Dean a suggestive wink. “I get off in half an hour,” she says.

Both he and Sam look after her, and okay yeah, she has a seriously hot rack. 

“You wanna go for it?” Sam asks, tone carefully neutral.

Dean looks after the hot waitress, then across the booth at Sam. They haven’t been away from each other for longer than a bathroom break since before they ended the end of the world. Sam’s been eating up all of Dean’s attention, he’s barely even registered the outside world. And even now Dean finds it hard to look away from Sam, who’s pointedly not watching him and eating his cheeseburger.  
“Nah,” Dean says, after a few seconds of silence. “She’s not that hot.” A blatant lie, but worth it to see Sam’s small smile, half hidden by his cheeseburger.

“You wanna shoot some pool?” Dean asks, ‘cause they could use the cash, and they haven’t played in a while.

Sam looks up, smile turning wider. “Yeah.”

*-*

Sam’s heavy when he’s drunk. He’s not exactly light when he’s sober, but when he’s drunk he turns into a dead weight, hanging from Dean’s shoulder.

“Dude, we smashed those guys,” Sam slurs into Dean’s ear, warm breath making the hairs on Dean’s neck prickle.

“Yeah, we did, now try and help me a little here, Sammy, okay?” Dean says, walk-carrying Sam towards their room.

“We were awesome,” Sam says way too loudly given his mouth’s about an inch from Dean’s ear.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grunts. Admittedly they did knock those arrogant frat boy assholes on their asses and won about 300 dollars from the idiots, and yeah that was pretty awesome, but right now he’s got bigger problems, namely unlocking the door to their hotel room while holding his drunk-ass brother upright.

He does somehow manage to maneuver them into the room and drops Sam on his bed. 

“I really had fun tonight,” Sam says quietly, while Dean pulls off his boots.

Dean smiles to himself in the darkness of the room. “Yeah, Sammy. Me too.”

Dean pulls off his own boots and puts a glass of water on Sam’s nightstand. Sam waits until he’s put down the glass and grabs his wrist, pulling Dean to sit next to him on the bed. His shirt is askew and his hair is a mess, and Dean can’t help it, he brushes the hair back from Sam’s face like he hasn’t done in years. “You’re drunk, little brother,” Dean mutters, knows his tone is amused and fond rather than annoyed or mocking.

“Duh,” Sam says, laughing a little at himself. “Haven’t been drunk in a long time,” he adds, sighing, and Dean thinks, _Here we go,_ ‘cause Sam was always a maudlin’ drunk.

Slowly, like he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, Sam slides a hand up Dean’s bare arm. His palm’s warm and rough, and Dean freezes, feels his heartbeat speed up when Sam’s fingers slide under his t-shirt along his skin, when Sam’s hand closes over his shoulder, over the angel mark there. “Wish it’d been me,” Sam whispers, “wish I’d dragged you out myself. Wanted to.”

Dean nods, his mouth dry and his entire body focused on Sam’s hand on his shoulder. “I know,” he mutters, voice rough and unsteady.

Sam’s hand fists in his shirt and Dean can somehow see what’s gonna happen next, can see the paths to take. Let Sam pull, or get up and walk away. Have this, finally, or pull back.  
Sam tugs, ever so slightly, and Dean just _gives,_ lets Sam pull him down against his warm, huge body, lets Sam run his hands all over Dean’s back, until they come to rest against Dean’s face and on the back of his skull. 

“Wanted this,” Sam whispers, looking way more sober than just a few minutes before. He just holds Dean there, gently, and presses their lips together, just a soft brush, but it reaches down and twists something inside Dean, something he thought was dead. Sam kisses him, slowly, deeply, and all the time he continues to touch him all over, hands through his hair and down his back and his sides, smoothing over the frayed pockets of his jeans, circling his hipbone. It’s intensely intimate and turns Dean inside out, makes his head spin and his entire body hot and heavy. It’s been years since Dean’s been touched like this, maybe he’s never been touched like this before, greedy and slowly and reverently, like he matters, like he matters more to Sam than anything else in the world. And he does, that’s the thing. He knows he does, because he died and Sam went more than a little crazy, and maybe at the heart of it, that’s what everybody really needs to be happy, somebody to go more than a little crazy over you.

And Sam’s definitely driving him crazy, every moment of every day, and whose business is it if they let themselves have this, enjoy this. 

Sam makes this tiny little sound in the back of his throat, a question Dean needs to answer. Dean twines his fingers in Sam’s hair and pulls him in, kissing him wide open, kissing like he means it, because damned if he ever meant anything more than he means this. 

They turn towards each other blindly, touching all over, pulling at shirts and jeans. Dean rips Sam’s front pocket pulling him closer, and Sam laughs. It’s the hottest thing Dean’s ever heard in his life. They rub and move and grope, they almost roll off the bed and barely get their pants off, and then Sam stills them both and wraps a huge, rough hand around both their dicks. It should be weird but it isn’t, not even a little, because Dean’s had it with self-punishment, because they deserve to take whatever happiness they can, and because Sam’s hand is on his dick and it’s _Sam_ , and all that makes Dean so turned on he can’t see straight. 

Sam’s whispering stupid nonsense, biting at Dean’s neck, at his ear, and Dean holds on to Sam, pulling him in, moving into Sam’s grip. Sam’s blanketing him completely, filling his senses with the scent of his sweat, the noises he makes, the hot, intensely good points of contact of Sam’s mouth on his neck, Sam’s hand on his dick.

Sam speeds up, tightening his grip, and Dean comes abruptly, orgasm slamming through him, electric and safe and so good he’s left breathless, and Sam comes only seconds later.

They lie in the dark, panting, so close Dean can feel Sam’s dick soften against his thigh. It’s strange and hot and mindblowingly new. And yet Dean knows this has been a long time coming. It’s been in the way they look at each other, and the way Sam touches him sometimes, like he can’t help it, the way Dean never feels quite whole without Sam within arm’s reach. It’s in the white hot rage he always felt thinking about Ruby and Sam, and how he knew even then that a whole lot of that was pure human raging jealousy, because she put her hands on Sam, and he couldn’t stand the thought of that.  
Sam looks up at him, eyes half hidden behind his stupid hair, and Dean kisses him, slowly, tells himself it’s because he needs to shut Sam up before he talks about feelings, but mostly he just wants to know what Sam tastes like when he’s just come.

Sam’s eyes are glazed when Dean finally draws back. “Sleep, Sammy,” Dean mutters, so quiet Sam wouldn’t hear if he wasn’t close enough to lick the words off Dean’s lips.

Sam smiles, then, small and soft and perfect, and closes his eyes. He’s asleep within minutes, and Dean follows because the bed’s comfortable, Sam’s warm, and he feels sex-relaxed and good.  
He sleeps soundly and in the morning, Sam’s still there, looking at him. Dean kisses him before they can talk about it. Sam follows him into the shower.

They never really do talk about it.

*-*

They lose the plot for a while, after that. They drive from Oregon to Maine just to see how long it takes without the armies of Hell behind them. Only they get distracted, by this new thing between them. They make out and rub against each other and touch and fumble half the night, like teenagers. Dean’s fascinated by the feel of Sam’s skin, by the heaviness of his body above Dean’s, by the hot hardness of his dick, his taste, his smell, all things familiar but completely new at the same time. The first time Sam goes down on Dean, they almost get kicked out of the motel for noise. 

On their third day on the road, they pass a nearly empty drive-in cinema. Dean pays for two, and they watch The Shining, sitting on the hood of the Impala. Dean mouths the dialogue along, Sam criticizes the internal ghost logic of the movie, and they miss the ending because mid-movie Sam has enough of the Jack impressions and straddles Dean and starts kissing him, and doesn’t stop until the end credits. Dean complains, but they both know he doesn’t mean a word of it, his hard-on pressing against Sam’s ass.

They don’t really talk about things. Neither of them mentions the future, what they’re gonna do now, whether they’ll go back to hunting, the demon blood still coursing through Sam’s system, the demons with a grudge against them, the angels with a grudge, the hunters out for Sam’s ass. Neither of them says so, but they’ve both decided to pretend they’re alone in the world, and nothing goes bump at night anywhere, ever. Dean knows he’s not remotely ready to go rejoin the real world, face up to consequences and pick up life again. There’s places in his mind and his soul that are too raw, too tired, likely to break under pressure. He’s happy here in avoidance land, and Sam seems to be right there with him. He figures if they’d done this, all of this, when Dean got out of Hell, if they’d ditched the Apocalypse and demons and hunting and the whole fucking world and concentrated on the two of them, putting each other back together, then they might have spared themselves a whole lot of trouble.  
But no time like the present, as they say, and he figures they have a lot of making up for lost time to do. So they drive, and they listen to music, and they stop when they feel like it, and they drive four hundred miles because Sam knows this fried shrimp place, and they ride rollercoasters and go swimming and drink and play pool for the fun of it. Dean watches Sam smile more than he has in about four years, and when he shaves in the morning the dark circles under his own eyes are getting lighter. Nightmares mostly stay out of the bed he shares with Sam. Dean’s not sure if this light feeling inside of him is happiness, but he’s willing to find out.

*-*

The leaves are starting to turn, wind rustling them over asphalt, the loudness of autumn.

They’re in a small dive near Mount St. Helens when life throws them one of its famous Winchester curve balls. 

They drove all day and Sam fell asleep face down on the bed pretty much the second the pizza box was empty. Dean’s sitting on the edge of the motel’s small pool, feet dangling in the water, reading a trashy novel he found in the depths of the Impala’s trunk.

In the distance, a dog starts barking. Wind picks up. The lights flicker, rhythmically. On, out, on, out. Slowly, Dean rises to his feet, pulls his gun out.

In a blink of an eye, he’s there. He’s tall, and he’s wearing a janitor uniform, and his eyes are deepest black. He grins at Dean, vicious and brutal. “Hi, Dean. Been waiting to catch you alone.”

Dean raises his gun, realizing that it’s worthless, but if he goes down, he’ll go down swinging.

Behind him, the door to their room bangs open loudly enough to make Dean start.

“He’s not alone,” Sam says, and the quiet anger in his voice scares Dean. The lights flicker more intensely, and the electricity in the air makes the hair on Dean’s arms stand to attention. 

And then, suddenly, it’s over. The demon rushes out of the poor guy, and the guy drops to the floor.

Dean lowers his gun and turns to Sam, who’s standing in the doorway, hands shaking, pale as death.

Dean takes a careful step towards Sam, lays a soothing hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Sammy, he’s gone, he won’t threaten us anymore, he’s gone.”

Slowly, Sam’s hands stop shaking. The lights stop flickering, and the air feels normal again. Sam turns around without looking at Dean and sinks to his knees, digging his fingers into the carpet of their room.

Dean kneels down next to him, puts a soothing hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Sammy, you did good. It’s all over.”

“It’s… never gonna be … over,” Sam says, every word an audible effort. “It’s always gonna be there. It’s never gonna go away, never.”

Dean sits back on his haunches, but leaves his hand on Sam’s back. He can feel Sam’s heart racing, can feel the struggling breaths. “I know.” It’s a reality he’s had a hard time accepting. Sam’s got vast powers, of which he’s only ever used a tiny fraction. But they’re there, they’ve always have been there, and life and all the forces of heaven and hell pounded at Sam until he broke enough to let them out. And now that they’re out, Dean knows they’re here to stay. 

“Doesn’t that scare you?” Sam asks, quietly, calming down slowly but surely. He’s still pale, but he doesn’t look like he’s gonna hurl or cry or destroy the world any second now.

Briefly, Dean considers lying, but they swore they wouldn’t, anymore. “Yeah,” he admits, finally. “Scares the living daylights out of me.”

Sam looks up at him, then, and gives him a humorless smile. “Me too.” 

“It’s never gonna be easy for me, not using the power,” he adds after a moment. “It’s always gonna be a fight.”

Dean gives him a humorless smirk. “Yeah, well, good thing I’m kinda used to it by now.”

Sam looks like he’s about to cry again, and Dean doesn’t want to go down that road again, so he hurls Sam to his feet and pushes him in the direction of the bed. “Well, seems demons run at the mere sight of you these days, so maybe the whole thing isn’t without its perks.”

Sam snorts, but he lets Dean shove him onto the bed, lets Dean roll him to his back, and when Dean lies down beside him, he curls into Dean automatically, and yeah, he’s got demon blood and could rule this world with a flick of his wrist, and he’s more powerful and dangerous than all the A-bombs in the world. But he’s also Dean’s kid brother, and Dean’s tried not caring, and he’s tried to pretend that he doesn’t still love Sam every bit as much as he always has, but fuck it, Sam’s the only person in the world who truly knows him and loves him anyway, who’d do anything for him, who’d turn the world upside down for Dean, and that’s worth more than any demon blood, any powers, any apocalypse. 

“Thank you,” Sam mutters, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean pulls him closer. “Don’t mention it,” he whispers into Sam’s hair. 

*-*

They’re both ready to move on next morning, if only to throw the demons off their trail. Dean slept badly last night, and he’s still shaken by the demon, and they both want to get the hell out of Dodge. Sam wants to go to DC because he’s never seen the Lincoln Memorial, so they drive east.

Bobby calls when they pass through Ohio, and Dean goes very still, keeps his eyes on the road. There’s a tightness in his throat and tension in his back.

Sam hangs up after a few noncommittal sentences. “Bobby wants us to come to stay for a bit. Sounds like he wants to check up on us, didn’t say so of course.”

Dean’s hands clench around the steering wheel. “Did he say anything about a job?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nope. Social call, he said.”

“You wanna go?” Dean asks, relief settling in.

Shrugging, Sam answers, “We might as well. You know he’s gonna keep calling until we do.”

“Okay,” Dean agrees. “But first we visit Mr. Lincoln.”

*-*

They roll into Bobby’s yard a few days later. Sam’s still wearing a t-shirt reading, _Tell us who shot JFK_ he bought in a cheap tourist shop near Capitol Hill and wore on their White House tour. Dean suggested a séance in the executive bathroom if Sam’s all that curious, and Sam laughed that full-body laugh Dean kind of lives for. It doesn’t hurt that the shirt’s really tight on Sam, and it occurs to Dean that he might have problems keeping his hands to himself while they’re at Bobby’s.

Bobby greets them with his usual gruff demeanor, watching them critically without trying to hide it. “How are you boys doin’?”

Dean exchanges a long look with Sam. Sam smiles at Bobby. “We’re good.”

It’s truer than it’s been in years.

*-*

They catch up over beers and chili. Bobby tells them it’s been quiet on all fronts, demons either gone or lying low. He catches them up on Jo and Ellen, on buzz from the hunting world, and Dean finds himself zoning out a bit, not sure he wants to know all that. 

Sam offers to do the dishes, and Dean follows Bobby into the living room, watches as Bobby pours them three generous Scotches. 

“So,” Bobby says quietly, handing a glass to Dean. “How is he really?” he adds, gesturing in Sam’s direction.

Dean shrugs. “Good. He’s good,” he adds, smiling a little to himself, throwing a glance at Sam over his shoulder, who’s whistling to himself while bending almost in half to reach the too low sink. He doesn’t mention Oregon, doesn’t think it’s something Bobby needs to know. 

“And how are you?” Bobby asks.

“We’re good, Bobby. We’re fine, really. Both of us.” Dean says, taking a sip of his scotch. “This is really good.”

Bobby smirks. “I only buy the good stuff anymore. We saved the damned world, we deserve the good stuff.”

Dean raises his glass. “Couldn’t agree more.”

They clink glasses, and for a few seconds, all that can be heard is Sam handling the dishes in the kitchen. Then Bobby says, “You boys hunting?”

Dean shakes his head, slowly, looking at his scotch as if it held the answers to the big questions of the universe. “Not… not right now. We… we need a break, Bobby.”

Bobby nods slowly, sipping at his scotch. “I get it, believe me, I do. You deserve it too, all you two’ve been through. You gonna go back to work, though, someday, right?”

Dean shrugs, surprised at his reluctance. “Yeah.” He tries to sound convincing. “Yeah.”

*-*

That night he can’t sleep. Even after Sam’s pushed him down on the mattress, put a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet and slowly jerked him off until he came biting Sam’s hand, he’s too wired to sleep. He can’t stop thinking about Bobby’s question, about what he wants, and what Sam wants, and how he’s never once asked himself what exactly that is.

After a few hours of listening to Sam snoring, he gets up, pulls on his jeans and one of Sam’s hoodies and goes for a walk.

Somehow, he ends up in the barn. He just sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall.

Sam finds him there. The moon’s shining in through the windows. Sam looks very pale in the dim light. It’s very late, and it’s cold; Sam’s pulling down the sleeves of his hoodie to cover his hands.  
Sam just sits down opposite of him and makes himself comfortable. He doesn’t ask any questions, just sits there and watches Dean. 

“I’m not sure I want to go back to hunting,” Dean finally says, in a rush, like he isn’t sure he could say it slowly. 

Sam’s quiet for a moment, making the face that means he’s absorbing information to build a new theory. “Okay,” he says after a while. 

Dean snorts. “That’s it? Okay?”

Sam shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, like Dean didn’t just say he wants to abandon their calling, their life’s work. “Well, we don’t _have_ to hunt, if you don’t want to. I mean, I’m pretty sure we did enough, Dean.”

Dean nods, suddenly not sure what to do with his hands, so he shoves them in the pocket of his hoodie. “Okay,” he says, tries to keep the relief out of his voice. “Okay.”  
_We,_ a small voice in his head repeats. _He said we._ He doesn’t know whether he really thought Sam might leave if they didn’t hunt anymore. Not really, not realistically, but that didn’t stop him from being a little scared of it.

Sam smiles at him, then gets to his feet slowly, Dean tracking every movement with his eyes. Sam’s graceful and strong, Dean always knew that, but he’s never related it to his own body before now, and now that he knows what Sam feels like against him, looking at Sam moving with that prowler-hunter grace makes Dean’s mouth go dry. Sam walks over to Dean, holding out his hand. “Wanna go back to bed?”

Dean takes Sam’s hand without hesitation; lets Sam pull him up and into the warmth of his body. “Yeah, all right.”

Sam pulls him in until they’re pressed snug together, Dean’s fingers fisting in Sam’s hoodie. “Dean?” Sam mutters into his ear.

“Yeah?”

“I dare you to ask Bobby the question.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, no way.”

Sam grins. “Chicken.”

“Fine,” Dean mutters. “You’re on. But if Bobby shoots me, it’ll be on your head.”

Sam’s grin grows even broader. “Deal.”

*-*

Next morning over breakfast, Sam’s watching him expectantly. When Bobby gets up to make more coffee, Sam makes a small, clucking chicken noise. 

Dean takes a deep breath. “Hey, Bobby?”

Bobby turns around and leans against the counter. “What?”

Dean pulls himself together and glares at Sam, who’s smirking broadly. “Why did you pull a shotgun on dad?”

Predictably, Bobby doesn’t as much as blink. “You mind your own goddamned business, boy,” he says, walking out of the room.

Sam’s snickering into his coffee cup.

“Shut up,” Dean mutters. 

*-*

Sam’s on the laptop that afternoon, and he’s got research face on. Dean half expects him to come up with some excuse to go check out this haunted something or other, when Sam comes over and sits down next to him on the couch, checking out the game Dean’s watching.

“Wanna go to Chicago and see Metallica live in concert?” Sam asks, playing for casual, amusement clear in his voice.

“When?” Dean asks, trying not to sound too eager.

“Tomorrow.”

Dean’s off the couch before Sam’s finished the word. “Bobby, we’re taking off.” He yells, then glares at Sam, who’s laughing. “If your stuff and your ass aren’t in the car in half an hour, I’m leaving you here.”

Sam just grins. “You keep telling yourself that.”

*-*

They go to Chicago and see Metallica, and it’s just about the best night of Dean’s life. He’s sweaty and half deaf afterwards, but goddamned it’s worth it. Sam even gets him a t-shirt. 

They drift around a little after that, New York, Michigan, Ohio. When it gets cold, they actually go to TJ, but Sam draws the line at a donkey show. They squat in this abandoned cabin near a deserted beach and sleep most of the day, then at night they go out and get cheap tacos and bring rum or tequila back to their hut. Sam completely floors Dean by vanishing for 15 minutes in a busy bar and coming back with a bag of weed and a stupid smile.

They get so wasted that night, laughing and trading smoke between their lips, and Dean feels so relaxed he believes for a while that he’s actually sunken into the floor. 

When they get back to the USA, they’re both tanned and a little sick from drinking the local water. It’s November and they need a change of scene, so they decide to go to Colorado, since neither of them has actually ever been skiing before.

It’s in Copper Mountain, Colorado, that life finally catches up with them.

*-*

They literally stumble into the hunt. Their hotel’s on the outskirts of the town, it’s small and old and the first time the lights flicker neither of them thinks anything of it because the wiring is bad and it’s snowing outside.

Then, in the middle of the night, they hear a scream.

Even though it’s been months, they’re on their feet, armed and out of the door in five seconds flat. 

They find Moira, the owner, a nice middle-aged single mom with a high school aged son, cowering in the second floor bathroom. The mirror’s shattered, the shards are all over the floor. The bathtub has hit the wall with so much force that it’s bent completely out of shape. The curtain’s frozen solid. The tiles are oozing ectoplasm.

Sam pulls out the EMF from the trunk, but it’s a mere formality. The house is so hot the EMF’s on full red even before they enter.

Moira’s sitting in the lounge with a Brandy when they’re done checking out the hotel. Dean sits on one side of her, Sam on the other.

“Tell us what happened, Moira,” Sam says in his best soothing, caring voice.

“It – it was so cold, all of a sudden,” Moira says, a tremor in her voice. “And then there was this noise, like crying, and then the tub just – moved. If I hadn’t jumped out of the way, the tub would’ve hit me.”

“Anything weird happen lately, anything bad?” Dean asks.

“We’ve had a lot of problems with the building lately, but you know, it’s old. Flickering lights, rats, tiles ripped off the roof by the wind, kitchen appliances going on the fritz, that sort of thing,” Moira says, taking a deep sip of her Brandy.

Sam looks at Dean, and Dean knows he’s thinking the same thing. Flickering lights, random destruction. Only one explanation.

Sam sighs. “Moira, there’s really no easy way to say this.”

Dean takes over, smooth and practiced, “You’ve got a poltergeist problem. Fortunately for you, we’re really good exterminators.”

*-*

 _Like riding a bike,_ Dean thinks, preparing the purification bags.

Sam’s talking to Bobby on the phone, scribbling notes for an extra purification spell. They got the rock salt out of the car, although the chances of the damned thing actually materializing aren’t too high.  
Sam’s checked out the history of the house just to be sure it’s not an angry spirit who committed suicide in that bathroom or anything. The house is squeaky clean, so they’re preparing the purification.  
Next morning, after the guests have all left to swish down hills and drink rum by the fireside, Sam and Dean hack holes into the plaster to purify their hotel.

It all goes well until the purification ritual. They do it in the bathroom, because it was the scene of the poltergeist’s most vicious attack, and Bobby surmises it probably lives in there.

The temperature drops when Sam draws the salt circle. The lights start flickering violently when he starts reading the Latin. Wind picks up, and the deformed bathtub starts moving. 

Dean tries to push Sam aside when the bathtub nearly knocks Sam’s legs out from under him, but the salt circle protects Sam. The poltergeist slams Dean against the cracked tiles, punching the air out of him efficiently. Dean can’t catch a breath, he feels like a sixteen ton weight is pressing down on his chest. The wind’s throwing debris and glass shards into their faces, and over the cacophony, Sam reads on, Latin rolling off his tongue easily.

It’s over almost as soon as it’s started. The pressure on Dean’s chest vanishes, and he falls to the floor, wheezing. Sam’s there a few seconds later, checking on him, helping him to his feet.

“Like riding a bike,” Dean huffs, looking around the destroyed bathroom, adrenaline surging through his system, making him feel light-headed.

“An extremely dangerous, painful, near-suicidal bike,” Sam adds, but he’s smiling, and so is Dean.

*-*

Moira thanks them with tears in her eyes. She refuses to let them pay for the room, and gives them muffins for the road.

Dean gets behind the wheel, wincing when he sits on his sore butt, and Sam slides in after him. Moira waves at them until she’s out of sight in the rearview mirror.

“I kinda missed that,” Dean says, surprising himself when the words come out of his mouth.

Sam snorts. “What, the danger, the mayhem, the collateral damage, or the being thrown into walls?”

“The look on their faces.” Dean points back where they just came from. That’s what it used to be all about, once, before the war, before it got complicated. Dean kind of forgot how great it feels to actually help somebody.

Sam smiles, then, a tiny, fond smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

They’re quiet for a while. Then Sam says, “You know, that look helped me through a lot of bad times.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters. “Me too.”

Bon Jovi’s playing on the radio, and Sam’s staring out of the window while Dean concentrates on steering the car towards the freeway. 

“Hey, Sammy?” Dean says.

“Yeah?” Sam turns to him, and Dean makes a choice, right then and there, maybe the first real choice he ever really had in his life. He decides that this, right here, is what he wants. His brother, his car, the road, this life. 

“How about you find us something evil to kill.”

Sam’s smile is bright and free and easy. “I can do that.”

end


End file.
